


Stuck On You

by pushingthesenses



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bickering, Bounty Hunters, Classism, Codependency, Cyberpunk, Dystopia, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Everything, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gang Violence, Heavy Angst, I can't help it, Inspired by Music, Jealous Ben Solo, Jealousy, Missing Persons, Panic Attacks, Poverty, Protective Ben Solo, Sad Ben Solo, Smuggler Ben Solo, Swearing, The First Order Sucks, The Knights of Ren are bounty hunters and a gang, War, and just a reminder, another friends to lovers? yes indeed, as usual, big ideas here, but in the future so we can have a tie fighter as a treat, everyone in this fic is gonna be a touch codependent, for someone who hates reading angst - i sure do write it a lot, i'm afraid to tag too much in case i give the whole story away, it sounds a little by the tags like i dont know what i'm doing BUT I DO, it's just...odd, it's the trope closest to my heart, sure he's always sad though i suppose, they're best friends okay we're just going through some stuff, this is set on earth, this isn't enemies to lovers i swear, what with there being a war and all, whether they'll come to fruition or not is another thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:27:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27112603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushingthesenses/pseuds/pushingthesenses
Summary: The year is 2084.Despite its advances, society has collapsed on itself. The world is crooked, damaged, dying. Rezoned into new territories, separating the elite from the unworthy. Civilization is crumbling at your very feet, and in the midst of it all, your best friend, Ben Solo, has been missing for three years.You desperately cling to what's left of him, hoping that he'll come home, praying that things will fall back into place.And then he does. And they don't. Because life is different when you're a scoundrel in the midst of a class war.
Relationships: Ben Solo | Kylo Ren/Reader, Ben Solo/Reader
Comments: 27
Kudos: 35





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't mind me, posting another WIP. 
> 
> This piece (particularly reader's experience of Ben being missing) is heavily inspired (and named after) Stuck On You by Failure. You can find it [here, if you wanna give it a listen.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MXvthgkZ2yQ)
> 
>  **This is just the prologue, and won't give much insight into the worldbuilding**. That will come in the following chapters. Also, I'm writing this with the assumption that phones will still be a thing in 2084, though they're only still used by the poor.

**Then** : New Year’s 2083

  
  


The way you tore across the dilapidated bar, seething, irate - the force behind your movements astonished your friends as you shoved past them, beelining for the toilets. You _hated_ the holiday season. It was New Years - it was supposed to be a _good_ night, a fun night. But these fights, these senseless, petty arguments and drunken tears, they ruined it. _Every_ single time.

You slammed the ruddy green cubicle door shut behind you, taking your phone out of your purse and sliding down onto the cool tile. It was wet, damp with fluid from the leaking lavatory that stuck to your dress. The tears came, then. Heaving, wretched sobs that ripped from your chest before you could stop them. You clawed at your knees, pulling them close to your chest as you felt that familiar crack in your lungs, that awful lump in your throat. For two years, you’d been numbly pandering through life with a canyon-sized gash in your chest - right between your lungs. A hole you couldn’t fix, a wound that wouldn’t heal. Always open, always weeping, always infected with ruminations of what could have been.   
What _would_ have been, if he hadn’t left.   
Disappeared. Vanished. _Gone_. 

Everyone in town had bets down on when you’d get together. You’d been friends since high-school, completely inseparable. You clung to him - your world, your dreams, your future, it all revolved around him. Because to you, nothing was worth doing if he couldn’t come with you. If he couldn’t be a part of it, like he’d been a part of everything else in your life. An ever steady presence, calming and strong throughout the most turbulent of times. No matter the unrest, no matter how society changed and faltered, you always had _him_ . And oh, how you _loved_ him. How you dreamt of him. 

You’d still call him, sometimes. Just to hear his voicemail. Just to hear that casual, “Hey, sorry I missed you”. 

You're sorry, too.

His mother kept up his phone payments, just in case. Just in case he turned his phone back on. Just in case he needed it. Just in case he wanted to call. She couldn’t afford it, not really. No one had enough credits to just throw them at something that wasn’t even being used. But she paid it, all the same. 

You’d text him, too. Just little things, here and there. You’d never get a reply, of course. But you hoped he’d seen them. Hoped he’d seen your birthday wishes, your happy holidays and “do you remember when…?” messages. Whenever your hometown got rezoned, whenever you were swept along to another derelict flat, another house-share in ruins, you’d text him the coordinates. Just in case. Just in case he’d come home. Because where was home, really, to any of you? In a world where land and ownership was reserved for the wealthy, your only home was in each other. In your friends. In your family. In your sense of belonging, wherever it may have been.

And though you called and called and called, you’d never left a voicemail. You almost did, a couple of times. But never knew what to say. You tried, you really did try not to think the worst. You tried not to think of his towering frame withering away in a ditch somewhere, lost among the scrap metal and copper wires. You tried not to think of his pale skin pulled too-tight over rotting bones, succumbing to maggots. No, you didn’t think like that. You couldn’t.

Your cracked and glitchy phone screen was barely visible through your haze of tears, but you didn’t need to see it. You knew his number off by heart, had done since you were a girl. He never changed it. He worried you’d forget it, if he did, wouldn’t be able to reach him if you needed him. 

The sad irony of that fact made your wails come harder. 

With trembling hands, you held the phone to your ear, shutting your eyes for a moment and relishing in the sounds of his voice as his voicemail greeting played. You sniffled, inhaling shakily in a poor attempt to control your ragged breathing. 

“Hey,” you whispered after the beep. “Hey, it’s um. Me, I guess,” you sniffled again, fresh tears rolling down your cheeks. Every breath was laboured, your lungs felt as though they were burning, like you were inhaling smoke. “I just..I wanted to hear your voice. I just…” you sobbed, then, unable to compose yourself. You’d been so good at that, before. Once upon a time, in another life. Or at least, what felt like another life. “ _Ben_ , I-I _need_ you, I can’t do this without you, I-I’m so t-tired of trying t-to do this w-w-without you. I can’t, I c-can’t do it,” you took another unsteady breath, hoping, praying, that he’d hear you. That he’d find you. _“_ Just...p-please, Ben. Please come home, I miss you”.

You dropped your phone back into your lap, letting your head fall into your hands as you let yourself fall apart. Your heels slid on the tile, your lungs crackled with effort as they desperately fought to breathe through your howls. You’d learned early on that the only way to manage the pain, the tears, the hurricanes that came tearing out of that trench inside you, was to let it come. Let it pass, let it wash over you in tidal waves. It would dwindle eventually. The storm would subside, leaving behind its wreckage, its carnage. You didn’t bother with damage control. There wasn’t much of a point. The next storm was never far off. 

As you felt yourself begin to settle, you heard a faint knock on the other side of the cubicle door. Your name was called softly, followed by another knock. You took a deep breath, yanking at the discoloured toilet roll to dab at your face and running nose.

“One second,” you called hoarsely, picking yourself up off the floor and straightening your dress. You’d ripped your tights somewhere in your frenzy, and you pinched absently at the ladder you’d created as you collected yourself. You had no idea how long you’d been in there, how long you’d been crying. But if the scratching in your throat and the pounding between your ears was anything to go by, it had been long enough. You took another breath as a poor attempt of maintaining composure before swinging open the door, revealing a concerned Rose. Glowing, ethereal as always, even in the darkest of bars. 

“You look like you need a hug,” she murmured, stepping closer. She held her arms out timidly. Bless her heart, she tried. Always, even when you pushed her away. You felt yourself well up again, blinking the tears away as you stepped into her embrace. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “I know you miss him.”

She knew, she _always_ knew. 

“I need him, Rose,” you whined, your words muffled as you spoke into her shoulder. “I need him.”

“I know, sweetie,” she hugged you tighter, “I know.”

You sniffled, pulling away as you reached for more tissue. “I’m sorry,” you muttered, dabbing at your eyes. “I’m sorry that I’m always such a fucking _wreck_ when I drink.” 

“Hey,” she held your arm softly. “Don’t be sorry. No one can tell you to heal.”

You nodded, chucking the tissue into the toilet. “Christ, what a mess.” 

Rose smiled, tugging at your arm softly. “Y’know, Jon sent me in here,” she said, her tone subdued. “He’s worried.”

You rolled your eyes. Jon was jealous, always had been, of your missing best friend. A man he’d never met, a man who could well be dead, owned more of your heart, more of your soul, more of your attention than he ever could. And that was fair enough, you knew that. You couldn’t argue with his statements, or how he felt. But the way he’d _yell_ , the way he’d cry when he sensed a storm coming, when he knew you missed Ben a little more than usual. The way he’d tell you to get over it, to let go, to accept that he was probably dead. It boiled your blood. He didn’t know Ben, he’d never met him, never saw that cheeky glint in his eye, never heard his airy laughter. He’d never been hugged by him, or sang to. He’d never gotten to know his stupid jokes, or his obstinate, mercurial attitude that could be so fucking frustrating but so inherently _Ben_ . Most importantly, though, he’d never seen how Ben _looked_ at you. How he held you when you fell asleep on the couch, how he’d carry you to your bed before hugging your mother goodbye. How he’d dance with you, how he’d laugh with you, how he’d just _be_ with you. It infuriated you, when Jon would insist that you let all of that go. To accept that he wasn’t coming back. Because you couldn’t accept that. You wouldn’t. 

When you returned to your group, you avoided his gaze, settling in beside Rose on the opposite end of the table. Never one to back down from a potential fight, Jon approached your seat, tapping your shoulder and eyeing you expectantly. He wasn’t a bad person, Jon. He was kind, and he loved you. But you couldn’t bring yourself to love him, you couldn't bring yourself to care for him the way he cared for you. And maybe you deserved this, all of this endless pain, for stringing him along for all these years, using him as a distraction to alleviate your ache. You lived with constant guilt, constant shame for what you were doing. But you couldn’t stop, couldn’t get out. You worried that if you did, you’d crumble completely. You wished you didn’t need a crutch, you wished you felt enough empathy for Jon to leave. But you didn’t. All you _ever_ felt was Ben, remnants of him sticking to your bones like a thirsty parasite, draining you of all emotion.

“I need some time,” you said plainly. “I just...Please. Just leave me alone.” You shook your head, your eyes glued to your half-empty rum and coke. Rum and badly brewed beer was the only alcohol available in the rezoned land. It turned your stomach sometimes, but a drink was a drink, at the end of the day.

You didn’t look at him, didn’t meet his eyes as he left, only saw him slip out of your peripheral vision and into the sea of people around you. 

When you crawled into your damp bed that night, alone and still in your dress, you’d never felt so misplaced, so lost. So hollow. So full of nothing that it terrified you. But when you slipped into a dream, into a world far kinder, far simpler than your own, you swore you could feel him. Swore you felt his arms, his hair, his breath. So you clung to it, anchored yourself to his broad frame and allowed yourself to melt. At least, in your dreams, he still clung to you, too.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You curse him for it, sometimes. Loathe him for it - for how he’s made you, his parents, his friends feel. How he’s broken them. Reduced all of you to nothing but fickle fragments that pass through time and space with little awareness, with little recognition, of what’s happening to them. At least, that’s how you feel. But the bitterness, the fury - it doesn’t last long. It never does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter was a prologue and somewhat of a flashback, so now we're moving from past tense to present. Also, if you've read any of my previous works, I tend to write in second person omniscient. I love a bit of head-hopping. Keeps us on our toes, lol. So just keep that in mind for future chapters. It doesn't appear here, but it will later on.

**Now** : 2084, spring. 

You’ve always hated spring. 

They used to call it the season of new beginnings, and new beginnings were _good_. But that was before. Now, starting over is nothing more than an expected, quotidian task each time the Empire rezones the land. Which is often. Too often to ever feel at home. Too often to ever really feel as though there’s a new beginning to be had. 

“It was the right thing to do, you know,” Rose smiles sympathetically in that way that she does, the kind of way that doesn’t make you feel pitied, but loved. 

“Hm?”  
“Breaking up with Jon.”   
“Oh,” you hadn’t actually given the situation much thought. He’d already retreated the back of your mind, an unimportant speck among an ocean of stress. “Yeah, I know.”   
“Because you didn’t love him.”  
“I know.”  
“Because you love Ben.”

“ _Rose_ ,” you hiss, your head flying around the dimly lit room. Because that’s all it is, really - a room. They’d outlawed bars (at least, in the rezoned areas) six months ago. Your shabby little makeshift basement bar - ran by Ben’s mother, nonetheless - was an illegal, yet necessary sanctuary. “Would you _stop_ ? Someone will hear.”   
“Oh, stop,” she scoffs, taking a sip of highly illegal (and cherished) gin and lemonade. “As if everyone here doesn’t already know.”  
“Well it doesn’t matter now, does it?” you mumble, twirling a bottle of beer between your hands. It’s a good one, not badly brewed and watered down. Leia, she gets the good stuff. How she gets it, you aren’t sure. “It’s not like he’s around.”   
“He’s not dead,” Rose affirms. “He can’t be.”  
“What makes you say that?”

Because you believe it, too, you do. He can’t be dead - couldn’t possibly be gone. Because Ben, he’s strong. He’s good and he’s kind and he’s funny and brave and men like him don’t just die unknowingly. Men like him go down in glory - of that, you’re sure. 

“Because it’s _Ben_ ,” she shrugs. “He’s supposed to be running this place one day.” 

You nod, still dragging your bottle across the uneven wood of the table. 

“It’ll be awkward, though,” you sigh. “With Jon.”  
“You think so?”  
“I mean, yeah,” you lean back in your seat. “He’s still with the Resistance, I’m gonna have to see him all the time.”  
“Yeah, I mean, maybe missions will be awkward but,” she shrugs. “He’s not an idiot, surely he knows to, you know. Stay away.” 

You hum in agreement, taking a swig from your bottle. Ben would like this beer, you think. It’s bitter, like he likes. 

“Sweetheart,” Leia is behind you now, a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Could I ask a favour?”  
“Of course.”  
“Could you watch the place for me tonight?” She has that apologetic expression on her face she so often bears, and it pains you to think of her worrying to ask you something. “Han is home from his mission tonight, and I’d just _love_ to see him, honey.”   
“Leia, of _course_ ,” you place your hand atop hers. “You deserve all the time together you can get.”

And they do. They’d separated for several months after Ben’s disappearance, neither of them able to cope with the weight of it in a manner that allowed them any semblance of intimacy, any notion of peace. But they’d rekindled as much as they could of their relationship, and despite Han’s long missions, continued to work on it. 

“Thank you, honey,” she smiles softly, squeezing your hand before turning to a demanding patron. She gives so much of herself to so many people, you wonder how there’s any of her left. 

When Leia finally bids you farewell, you’re already shuffling around behind the badly crafted bar, held together precariously by planks and rusted nails. You’re not sure who built it - though you expect it may have been Poe - but you’re surprised it’s still standing after only one week of use. You pull another bottle of gin from a box on the concrete floor, and you scoff at the icy feel of it. The wicked cold from the exposed ground has kept it remarkably cool. You hope you’ll be able to shut the refrigerator off, in that case. It’s _far_ too expensive to run. 

“Here,” you pour Rose another glass. She sits at the bar now, resting her chin in her palm. “Perk up a little, you’ve gotta keep me company.” 

Rose sticks her tongue out playfully. 

“Did you get settled in your new place?” She speaks into her glass and the sound of her voice vibrates through the liquid.  
“Mhm,” You sigh, pouring a drink for yourself. It’s your second move of the year already - the Empire having pushed you out of every zone you’ve ever called home. When they come, ships and tie-fighters blackening the sky above you, you’re herded like goats to whatever new (and smaller) zone they deem suitable for nuisances such as you. For peasants such as you. “You?”  
“Meh,” she shrugs. “I wish they kept me with you this time. I hate being by myself.”  
“Me too,” you murmur. And you do. You _really_ do. “But it is what it is.” 

You glance to your left, eyeing the stacks upon stacks of boxes that pile up against the wall. All labelled _‘bottles’_ , _‘glasses’_ , _‘coasters’_ in Finn’s terrible handwriting. There’s one that sits at the bottom, labelled only ‘ _our stuff’_ . Back in the old bar - the real bar - you’d had CD players (the old kind, from decades ago - you couldn’t afford anything else). You’d had string lights and flowers and Sabacc tables. You’d decorated the walls with photos - of you, of Ben, of the resistance. Of the people who owned and worked at the only establishment for fucking miles that conceived any happiness. And it was beautiful. It was _perfect_. 

“When’s Poe back?”

Rose hums. 

“I think he’s coming back with Han tonight,” She takes a sip of her drink. “Why?”  
“I really wish he’d move those fuckin’ boxes,” you grit. “Hide them in the back or something, but I can’t stand the sight of them.” 

Rose nods sympathetically. 

“He will,” She turns, then, as the sound of rain pummels against the ground outside. Though it’s a basement, there’s still windows, the kind that sit more toward the ceiling, the kind that are awfully awkward to open. She squints at them, and your eyes catch how she leans closer to get a better look. 

“You alright?” You lean toward her, resting your elbows against the bar. You can hear how it creaks with the pressure.   
“Y-yeah I just,” she drags her eyes away, bringing her attention back to you. “I just thought I saw someone outside.”   
“There’s lots of people outside,” you smile. “There always is.”   
“No, I know, but they were like…” She looks back to the window. “They were crouching, looking in.” 

You sigh.

“Hopefully not an inspector for the Empire,” Rose turns back to you as you speak, and you smirk at her reassuringly. “That Armitage Hux prick has always had it out for me.” 

She laughs in that airy kind of way that she does, the kind of way that makes you bubble with gratitude - because you _know_ her. You’re fortuitous enough, privileged enough to be around such a light, such an ethereal soul. You often wonder what you ever would have done without her. You often wonder if you’d have survived it - survived _this_ , survived the loss of _him_ , without her. 

“Maybe if you wouldn’t rile him up, he wouldn’t hate you so much.”

“But it’s just so much fun to piss him off,” You grin. “He gets so flustered.” 

You stay like that, laughing together, until well after midnight. You’re glad for it, the distraction. You need it, even now. Even after all this time. Being alone - with your thoughts, with the gaping hole that sits inside your chest - doesn’t get any easier. They say time heals all wounds. You wish it would. It’s only made yours worse, only further infected it with spores of him, that burst and spread the ache right down into your bones. You curse him for it, sometimes. Loathe him for it - for how he’s made you, his parents, his friends feel. How he’s broken them. Reduced all of you to nothing but fickle fragments that pass through time and space with little awareness, with little recognition, of what’s happening to them. At least, that’s how _you_ feel. But the bitterness, the fury - it doesn’t last long. It never does. 

When you trudge inside your new apartment (though new doesn’t seem very apt, perhaps crumbling would fit better), you feel him. He’s never been there, of course, but you feel him nonetheless. You feel him everywhere. In everything. And it haunts you - _he_ haunts you. And he has no right to, because you know he’s not dead, he _can’t_ be. 

You run through your nightly routine, finally readying yourself for slumber. You hope you’ll see him there, when you close your eyes and drift from hell into harmony. You hope you’ll find him nestled in the crevices of your subconscious. Because you know he’s there. He’s always there. And when you unlock your front door, when you prop open the windows before crawling under the sheets - you hope he’ll find _you_ here, too. Nestled under the covers, waiting for him. 

And when you fall into deep sleep, into a dream - or a memory - of long ago, a dream of smiles and laughter and his honey-brown eyes, you don’t hear the door as it creaks and clicks open. You don’t hear the windows as they fall shut, the frigid breeze no longer assaulting the room. You don’t hear the footsteps, nor do you hear the breathing - panicked, rushed. 

When you’re asleep, you find him. And when you’re asleep, he finds you.


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You stretch, elongating your limbs as you turn away from the window, groggily humming as you do. 
> 
> And then, you see him.  
> And then, you scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **There is a lot of swearing in this chapter**. I wrote it when I was pretty angry - but admittedly, this is similar to my own speech pattern, anway, as I don't come from a well-off upbringing, and I spent most of my life in a small Irish town where this is just...how we all spoke. My friends and I weren't well off and yeah, and swearing as punctuation was really just the way most people in our town communicated. So, because this story deals with classism and poverty, I guess a lot of the inspiration for our character's speech patterns (particularly when they're angry, as they are in this chapter, perhaps not constantly) are taken from my own experience.  
> Also, very dialogue heavy, sorry. 
> 
> **Reminder:** I usually write in second-person omniscient, which is why you'll likely see plenty of head hopping.

You wake with a start, inhaling sharply as your eyes adjust to the morning light. It cracks through a crooked break in the rotting window shutters, the black paint has long since flaked away to expose it’s decaying wood. You yawn, nuzzling into your pillow. You relish in the quiet of mornings like these - a brief sliver of serenity, of tranquility, amidst a raging war. There’s no patrols this morning, no roar of ion engines, no gunshots, no screaming. No sound, no peep at all from the hell you’ve come to live in. Just the quiet rumble of resistance vehicles, the soothing hum of conversing pedestrians. You stretch, elongating your limbs as you turn away from the window, groggily humming as you do. 

And then, you see him.  
And then, you scream. 

The pitch of your glass-shattering screech startles him awake, and he jumps out of his sleeping position - his head resting heavily against his fist, his elbow supporting his upper body weight on the arm of one of the only two chairs you own. You scuttle backward frantically, your back hitting the wall - you couldn’t afford a headboard even if you saved. Your bed doesn’t even have a _frame_. 

“ _Woah,_ ” he grunts. “You scared the shit out of me.” 

You blink. You can feel it, the panic. You know it’s coming, and you try in vain to calm your heart as it begins to race, pounding against your flesh. You can hear it in your ears, can hear the blood draining from your face. Your breathing starts to catch in your throat as your chest tightens, and you think, for a moment, that you might vomit all over your knees. 

“You look like you’re going to puke,” he comments, rising from his seat. He steps closer to you, but you flinch, and your breathing only accelerates. “It’s alright, it’s just me, it’s Ben,” his tone drops to a soothing murmur as he continues his approach. “It’s just me, sunshine.” 

It’s the nickname that does it, that throws you over the edge. Sobs erupt from your chest with a force, causing you to cough and choke as tears start to spurt, cascading down your cheeks and streaming past your lips. The bed dips as he appears beside you, pulling you to him, right into his chest - and the _feeling_ , how it feels to finally have you like this again, right in front of him, your skin beneath his fingertips, your hair tickling the plains of his cheeks. The moment, this indulgent little fragment of repose, it doesn’t last. You thrash against him, shoving him away with every ounce of strength you can muster first thing in the morning. 

“What the _fuck,_ Ben?” You wail, kicking him away and scooting to the opposite side of the bed. “W-what the fuck are you doing here?”  
“Waiting for you to wake up,” he says - and calmly, too. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.   
You look at him incredulously, frantically wiping the tears from your face. Your shock is replaced by a glower.   
“Where have you been,” you grit out, enunciating each word with as much venom as you can. “For the past three fucking _years_?”

Ben pauses, eyes falling to the floor. 

“Smuggling,” he mumbles, almost too low for you to hear.   
“Smuggling,” you repeat the word indignantly. “You left us. You left the Resistance, your family, _me_ , to go and fucking _smuggle_?”   
“It’s not that simpl-” 

You cut him off. You don’t care if it’s not that simple. _Everything_ is that simple. 

“Well what the _fuck_ are you smuggling?”  
“Just weapons at first, but now with the whole alcohol thing-”  
“Jesus, Ben, how the fuck did you end up in this mess?”  
“The Knights of Ren-”  
“The Kni- the fucking bounty hunters? The fucking gang? Are you _fucking_ for real?”  
“They fucking found me on the outer rim on that mission with a top tier warrant on my head!”  
“ _And_?”  
“Wh-” Ben looks at you incredulously, mouth half hanging open. “What the _fuck_ do you mean _‘and’_ ? They cut me a deal, I work for them, they don’t hand me over to the Empire.”   
“Work for _them_? What, you’re hunting bounties, now? Picking us off?”

Ben shifts backward in surprise, a hand running through his raven hair. It’s longer now, than it used to be. 

“No, _Jesus_. The deal was that I bring in their credits. I smuggle whatever they want me to, I _do_ whatever they want me to - they keep me away from the Empire, and they leave the Resistance alone.”   
“Sounds like a sweet fucking deal, bet you’re living the life of luxury,” you fold your arms across your chest, sniffling quietly.   
“Well, I made them enough fucking credits,” he makes a gesture of exasperation with his hands. “But I don’t get a cut. Them leaving you alone is payment enough, as far as they’re concerned. They lose a lot of fucking money not picking up your bounties,” he pauses for a moment, his eyes that had settled on the ground now snap up to meet yours. “Do you know you’ve got a second tier warrant on you?”

You ignore him. Of course you know. 

“I can’t believe that’s what you were doing, that that’s where you _were_ .”   
“I was staying _alive_ ,”   
“We _needed_ you.”  
“And what fucking use would I have been to anyone dead?” He roars, and you jump only slightly. “What fucking use am I to _you_ if I’m dead?”   
“You were as good as, you dick.”   
“I always knew I was coming back,” he tries to settle his temper. “I couldn’t have left you forever.”  
“You left for long enough, didn’t you, though? Because _we_ didn’t know you were coming back.”   
“I couldn’t-”  
“You could have fucking _called_!” You shriek. “I texted your stupid fucking phone every fucking time I thought of you, which was _all_ the damn time.”   
“I know,” he murmurs. “I got them. Your voicemail, too.”   
  
You can’t help the whimper that escapes you. It feels somewhat like your whole life has just shattered around you. Clouded sheets of glass that guard your soul crack, split and crash at your feet. 

“I fucking hate you,” you sob. “I absolutely fucking hate you.”   
“No,” Ben murmurs, and he reaches for you again. You swat at him. “You don’t, sunshine. You know you don’t.”

“I _do_ ,” you cry. But Ben shakes his head again, and you don’t even _see_ , don’t even notice that he’s crying, that he’s _been_ crying. 

“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” he whispers. “ _Please_ ,” and he tries again - arms winding around your waist as he pulls you to him, sliding you onto his lap. You don’t resist this time. Your head lolls against his chest as you cry, and cry and cry and cry until it feels like your throat is coated in splinters. And he holds you like that, while your hands clutch at his shirt, bunching it in your fists, and he rocks you gently. Humming softly as his own tears drip down onto your scalp. Humming a song - _that_ song. _Your_ song. 

_You are my sunshine, my only sunshine._

* * *

“She can’t see me,” Ben toys with his coffee cup. He sits, hunched over at your kitchen table - if you can call a decaying wooden crate with two chairs as much. “She can’t know.”

“You’re not gonna tell your own _mother_ that you’re alive?” You’re standing at the counter, watching him from a safe distance. Your anger, your fury has simmered, but hasn’t dissipated. “What the _fuck_ has happened to you?”

“I’m not supposed to be here,” he grits, grinding his teeth. You’ve always _hated_ when he does that. The noise of it would wake you during the night when you’d both shared a closet-sized bedroom some years ago. You’d shared a damp mattress, too. Mold ridden and lumpy and _cold_. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”

“Then why did you?”

Ben rolls his eyes. 

“What fucking good is it explaining anything to you? You don’t _listen_.”   
“I’ve _been_ listening.”

“Well, you’re not fucking hearing me, then,” he mumbles, focusing his attention on your feet instead of your face. He’s irritated, irate with himself for thinking this would be easy - that you’d leap into his arms without a second thought. Because really, you’ve always been this way. Stubborn, unyielding. The two things he’s always so deeply admired about you are now serving only to undermine his feeble plan. 

“Even if you _did_ want to tell her, she’s leaving on a mission today.”  
“And dad?”  
“Going with her,” you sip at your own coffee. It tastes of used filters. “You know Han doesn’t let her go alone.” 

Ben nods solemnly, twirling his cup in his hands. 

“I came for you,” he murmurs. “That’s why I’m here.”   
“ _For_ me?”   
“I needed to see you,” his voice drops an octave, and it trembles only slightly as he speaks. “And I can keep you safe.” 

You scoff. The concept of safety has been long lost on you. For years now, you’ve endured, survived - but you’ve lost sleep, jumping awake at the sound of an ion engine. You’ve lost blood, lost hair, lost half your sanity simply trying to stay _alive_. 

“There’s no safety, not here, not anywhere.”  
“ _I_ can keep you safe,” he springs up from his seat, knocking his empty cup over as he does. “But you need to trust me.”   
“What about your parents? Your friends?” 

He’s inches from you now, biting at his lip in that way that he does, the way that makes them red raw and swollen. He’s determined, adamant that this will work - that you’ll _hear_ him, that you’ll come _with_ him. He needs to know that the past three years haven’t been in vain, that they haven’t been for nothing, that his work, his fucking slavery meant _something_. 

“My parents don’t need my help, you know that as well as I do,” he murmurs, his voice dropping deeper. “They’re untouchable. You aren’t.”   
“None of us are.”  
“ _You’re_ my priority,” he insists, and the power he holds with his stance, his figure that looms over you alone almost convinces you of it - that you are.   
“Didn’t feel like that when you fucking disappeared,” you grumble, not stepping back when he moves closer. “And I don’t see how you’re going to be able to protect me. Ben Solo the smuggler, what hold do _you_ have on the Empire?” 

He cocks an eyebrow, his honey eyes twinkling as a soft smirk forms on his lips - and all you can think of is _trouble_ , because that smirk, those eyes - they’ve never led to anything good. 

“Ben Solo? Nothing,” he shrugs. “Kylo Ren, though? _Everything_.”

**Author's Note:**

> [come say hello on tumblr, if you'd like!](https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/)


End file.
